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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088047">pastoral (in your arms)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylixiss/pseuds/ylixiss'>ylixiss</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Pastoral, Read TWs in Notes, Romance, Sexuality Conflict, Strangers to Lovers, Youngho is a writer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:08:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,304</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088047</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylixiss/pseuds/ylixiss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Youngho should know better than to judge a book by its cover.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Moon Taeil/Suh Youngho | Johnny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Johnil Fest 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pastoral (in your arms)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thank you, prompter! i don't know if i did justice to your idea, but i hope this piece won't leave you disappointed.<br/>prompt #021: Rich/city boy travels to the countryside to do some ✨soul-searching ✨and meets country boy.</p><p>trigger warnings: responsible alcohol consumption, (very little) smoking, mentions of a pet's death, troubled relationships with parents</p><p>(also i hate rating my fics because i never know how. it’s not a smut-centered fic for sure, but there are some small scenes)</p><p>in case you need a soundtrack:<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y79HC22JEDw&amp;ab_channel=SacredBonesRecords">vår - in your arms</a><br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mycVWg_2dqs&amp;ab_channel=DragCity">wand - scarecrow</a><br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>There’s a tiniest crack on the ceiling. Youngho wonders if it’s a good enough reason to go bother his landlord.</p><p>The first thing he sees when he arrives at a small wooden gate is a guy in a sage beanie and a few potatoes in his hands. There’s dirt under his fingernails and small calluses scattered around his palm when they shake hands. Youngho just got his nails done. Even just one clear layer of nail polish feels awkward and excessive. Youngho notices an old bike leaning against the fence, as if someone put it there after some futile tries at repairing it.</p><p>The guy is supposed to be his landlord. Youngho expected it to be someone older, but he really can’t complain.</p><p>The landlord’s house isn’t as big as the one Youngho will soon occupy - it’s inviting and simple, warm colors and round edges.</p><p>He learns the guy’s name – Taeil – and his first impression of him is that he is aloof and taciturn. He shows him the house – a spacious one-storey building that has anything and everything Youngho might need but lacks something too.</p><p>“If you need anything, you know where to find me. Be reasonable though,” it sounds like a caution that came from experience with other tenants and not because of Youngho in particular, but somehow he feels a tingle in his heart, just a little.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Taeil doesn’t ask why a guy in his twenties would rent a whole house by himself for an unspecified amount of time. The house is usually rented by families or small groups of friends. But the money is in his bank account and for Taeil it’s enough. The new tenant seems normal enough, no red flags, just don’t burn the house down or leave food rotting in the fridge when you go back.</p><p>He’s a writer, Taeil learns. Must be a good one, Taeil thinks, if he can afford the house. Neither of his names rings any bells, though (<em>My name is Johnny, but you can call me Youngho</em>).</p><p>(Taeil is twelve and there are unmistakable blue dots from a pen all over his white shirt. He got into a tussle with his classmate and only one of them left with scratches all over his arms.</p><p>Now Taeil’s hands are red and soapy from trying to get rid of these ugly dots and lines. It hurts and the water is getting colder, but his shirt is the same. It’s almost 9 pm so soon he’ll have to show it to his mother. Maybe she’ll get rid of the dots. Maybe she’ll bring extra money for dry-cleaning. Maybe she won’t get mad.</p><p>Taeil’s head hurts and he can feel his skin dry and rough around the lines from his tears.)</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
When Youngho comes out to the porch he can see outlines of Taeil’s house on the left, hidden behind lush trees. Sometimes in the mornings he can even hear Taeil talking to someone, a local teenager who rides a rattling bike and calls Taeil hyung. It’s one of the few things he can make out because they speak in a dialect that’s hard to decipher for Youngho from a distance.</p><p>The lights are on. It’s a short walk and the air is brisk with spring and fir. The sun hasn’t even begun to sink.</p><p>Taeil is sitting comfortably in a chair, peeling what looks like a potato. It’s been almost four days (word count: zero) since Youngho has settled into the house, during which he wasn’t ready to disturb Taeil. He’s wearing a snapback backwards and his t-shirt is smeared with dirt. He’s humming a song Youngho can’t make out.</p><p>They end up sharing a few beers and Youngho learns that Taeil used to live in the city too, but moved back here. Taeil remains somewhat discreet, even if a little more talkative than before. His smile is toothy and genuine and his laugh is silly. Youngho should have known better than to judge a book by its cover.</p><p>It’s getting colder outside and Youngho can barely make out the pattern of Taeil’s shorts now.</p><p>Taeil asks some questions about Youngho’s writing career. Maybe it’s the third beer or maybe Taeil wanted to know it all along. Youngho shares, Taeil listens, albeit hardly impressed. It’s not something Youngho is used to, but it feels like a good change of routine. After all, wasn’t it what he wanted from this place?</p><p>Taeil is rubbing the neck of the beer bottle with his thumb. The artificial light from the porch lamp lays gently on the bridge of his nose and tired eyes and Youngho feels like it’s time for him to go back.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The cursor is derisive as it flickers at Youngho. He has tried everything – pen and paper, an old typewriter he took with him instead of an expensive coffee machine from his apartment (he couldn’t install it anyway), typing in his notes app, placing sticky notes above a small desk. His laptop was his last hope but when the words did come out they weren’t the right ones.</p><p>There’s a deck chair on his porch that he dug out from the pantry and he spends most of his mornings drinking coffee on it (thank god this house had a filter coffee machine). These mornings are accompanied by a rhythmic sound of Taeil working in his garden and Youngho has finally woken up early enough to see the kid who comes to visit Taeil from time to time. His skin is tanner than Taeil’s and his limbs are long. As the boy rides past Youngho, he immediately thinks back to his life in the states when he sometimes used to bike to school because kids on the school bus were cruel and insecure.</p><p>Now he’s in South Korea and somehow, he’s a foreigner again.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Youngho decides to pay Taeil another visit when it’s hot, the sun is burning his eyelids, he has written a few paragraphs (all of which he hates). The kid was just about to leave. Youngho smiles at him, feeling bitter nostalgia about the times that were out of his control, floating in the past and Youngho feels helpless and powerless. Maybe he should have spent the money on therapy once more.</p><p>The kid gives him a crooked smile and rides off, the bell jingling slightly as he speeds up.</p><p>“You’ve got many visitors,” Youngho says loudly so that Taeil can hear him as he digs around in the dirt around a huge bush.</p><p>“Yeah, two,” Taeil responds, slightly muffled, but Youngho can hear a smile. Taeil’s wearing a straw hat that’s too big for him and cloth gloves, there’s sweat around his temples.</p><p>“Do you need help?”</p><p>Taeil shoots Youngho a quick, almost offended glance.</p><p>“I’m good. Did you need something?”</p><p>“No, not really, just bored. I thought about driving to the store, do you need anything? I can drive you there.”</p><p>Taeil looks back at him from where he is crouched and his gaze is unreadable, pensive.</p><p>“Well, since you’ve asked, yes. I need something for the garden.”</p><p>He takes his gloves off and there are tiny red scratches across the skin of his hands. Youngho feels a sudden urge to hold and cool them.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The road to the store is short, however Taeil takes his time as he walks back and forth in the ‘for garden’ aisle. He explains to Youngho that there’s a harvest festival soon and he participates in it every year. There is a prize for the best home-made product and Taeil really wants to win it this year.</p><p>“What kind of product do you have?’ Youngho asks, putting a cold bottle of milk to his neck to cool down a bit from the heat outside.</p><p>“Gooseberry jam. Have you tried?” Taeil shoots him a smile. Youngho hates how disarming it is.</p><p>“I don’t think, no.”</p><p>Taeil picks up a pair of hand pruners, studies the label and says without taking his eyes off of it, “Then you’ll be my judge before the contest.”</p><p>Youngho wants to retort, say he’s not really an expert in this area but he also doesn’t want to miss a chance at spending more time with somebody. Especially Taeil. He likes Taeil. He might inspire him to write something. Sometimes Youngho wonders if he’s a bad writer for borrowing people’s vehemence without them knowing it.</p><p>There is an envelope tucked in the slit of his gloves compartment that Youngho finds days later with the words ‘gas money’ on it.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
That night Youngho hardly sleeps. There are no cars driving by and honking, no drunks, no city noise. All he hears is the choral voice of cicadas.</p><p>He left Taeil’s place two hours ago but his body is still breaking down the beer and he still feels his hand tingle after they’ve had an arm-wrestling match that Taeil, surprisingly, proposed. Taeil’s face is so close to Youngho’s, he can see a tiny scar on Taeil’s cheek.</p><p>Youngho wins, but it’s a tie for a solid minute. Taeil huffs almost mockingly.</p><p>“You’re stronger than I thought”.</p><p>Youngho laughs as he looks up at the sky, starry and lonely - it is the most intimate thing he has done in months.</p><p>It’s the first time Youngho sees Taeil so carefree, it’s the first time they’ve held each other’s hands without the formal context of first-time greetings. It’s the first time Youngho realized he might be falling for Taeil.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Youngho is leaning against the fence, observing Taeil. His knees are dirty from the soil and he keeps saying no to Youngho’s offers to help. Even with a huge t-shirt on, Youngho sees that his body is taut from the constant gardening labor. Youngho’s body is taut from the gym membership that includes a personal trainer.</p><p>Everything about Taeil is genuine – from his soothing smiles and words to the way he rubs his earlobe or cracks his joints when he’s nervous. Youngho feels artificial with his unfinished sentences, unanswered e-mails from his editor and darkening roots on his head.</p><p>During one of their late night chats the subject of Youngho’s actual goal of staying here inevitably comes up. Probably for the first time ever Youngho verbalizes his struggles, his fears, his weaknesses in a manner that isn’t forged. Most of the things he says he cannot tell his editor, because of his pride. He avoids the phrase ‘writer’s block’ like the plague.</p><p>Taeil is silent for some time, his gaze somewhere between Youngho’s knees and a mosquito hovering above them. His fingertips brush his earlobe.</p><p>“If the words came to you, it means they are not wrong. You shouldn’t erase them just because you don’t like them now. They want to have their chance too. You should give it to them.”</p><p>It’s the most he’s heard Taeil speak at once and it’s so simple and transparent. The idea that Youngho should let go of fears seems so ingenious when it comes from Taeil’s mouth, Youngho wonders if he has some fears to let go of his own.</p><p>That night Youngho writes many many paragraphs and lets the words live, for once.</p><p>(Youngho is sixteen and he can feel the wood of his desk poke into the spot between his ribs and his stomach as he leans closer and closer, hovering above dry pages. The table lamp’s light is dim. Pencil in one hand, he runs the finger of the other under the words, absorbing them.</p><p>It’s not an easy task, finding books in Korean, when you live in the suburbs of Chicago. Youngho spends his last allowance money to buy a new one only to spend nights underlining new words, trying his hardest to imprint them inside his memory, often doing it with the whole sentences. It's not easy, sewing severed roots. </p><p>When he’s older, twisting in the pulse of another big city, he’s thankful to his teenage self, to his rebellious perseverance.</p><p>There are a handful of poems that he spread between different publishing companies, written while falling in love and adapting to the new life. The poems are crude and Youngho is afraid to even look at them now, seeing too much of other people in them and not himself.</p><p>The same fear always battled the solace that he feels when writing. Taeil managed to subdue this fear, without really knowing it.)</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Even with their almost scheduled meetings on Taeil’s porch, their long chats eating into the night and their laughter scaring off small animals lurking around in the night, Taeil finds it difficult to open up completely to Youngho. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. Taeil doesn’t trust easily, doesn’t trust completely and it’s not his or Youngho’s fault.</p><p>To Taeil it’s simple. Youngho is a city boy with an expensive car and American name in his passport. He writes and gets paid for it enough to have an unplanned vacation somewhere in the countryside.</p><p>If Youngho were a girl, Taeil’s mother would be so proud. What a catch, don’t miss the chance! Taeil wishes she could be proud without any ifs.</p><p>And Taeil? He makes a living by renting out a place he’s inherited from his grandparents and growing out produce. There are bold tan lines on his arms. When he lived in Seoul and had to converse in English he always felt awkward and dumb. He can’t even afford a car.</p><p>This is why Taeil doubts they can have matching worldviews and values. This is why they couldn’t be further apart. After all, one of Taeil’s first impressions of Youngho is of a careless rich city boy - he orders food delivery with products that will expire before he can eat them, he wears a ridiculously overpriced watch and Taeil is afraid to even think how much his car costs. Youngho isn’t always careful with his words either, especially for a writer, but it’s something Taeil was used to from everyone.</p><p>Yet he laughs at his jokes and when it’s getting darker he looks to where his gate is, expectantly. Yet he feels the hair on his arms woken up by the goosebumps pressing against the inside of his jacket whenever Youngho’s breath brushes his skin, their faces too close in the dark. The swell of Youngho’s mouth reminds him of last August peaches that he ate so much of that he was sick.</p><p>(His ex-boyfriend leaves him a gift, months before they break up – an expensive bike Taeil was eyeing for some time. Taeil isn’t sure if it was a farewell gift or if it just didn’t work out, was never supposed to work out. They hardly had any fights and somehow it leaves Taeil emptier, only memories of sweat-soaked sheets, black denim jacket washed too many times and unseen touches.</p><p>The bike breaks down a week after they decide to never even speak to each other. It might have been because Taeil was spinning pedals too hard, chasing the speed and didn’t see the curve in the road. It might have been because he didn’t want another reminder of his failed relationship. He never attempted to fix either.)</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Youngho’s fingertips tickle from the alcohol haze as he relaxes in a deck chair. Taeil is putting away the last pieces of meat from the grill and stretches out beside Youngho as well. His hair is still wet from swimming in the lake, their mutual attempt at battling the heatwave.</p><p>“How come you never come to visit me?” Youngho’s lower lip juts a little.</p><p>Taeil snickers as he closes his eyes, a pleased smile splitting his face. He stretches his arms and Youngho can see the length of exposed skin on Taeil’s stomach. They lock lidded eyes.</p><p>“You didn’t answer my question,” Youngho’s voice is quiet.</p><p>Taeil’s smile slowly fades as he turns to lie on his side and props his head with his hand, the deck chair creaking meanly.</p><p>“I just don’t think it’s polite to disturb a writing process.”</p><p>Maybe he’s tipsy, but this simple phrase makes Youngho’s heart heavy with sentimental gratitude.</p><p>“I wish people in the city were like you, Taeil,” he mumbles, almost unwittingly.</p><p>(Taeil visits him, once. Youngho holds out a few pages, a black barbed wire of words staining it. Taeil starts reading, straining to understand the handwriting and suddenly Youngho’s hand comes back to take the pages away.</p><p>“Sorry, I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s still not finished.”</p><p>Taeil turns away, flipping through pages with a smug face.</p><p>“You just gave it to me yourself!”</p><p>Youngho tries again to snatch the paper away, broken grunts and laughs resonate against their sunkissed skin. Taeil takes a few swift steps away from Youngho, trying to grasp at what’s written but it’s impossible.</p><p>Youngho’s voice is closer again as he pleads, his hand gently touching Taeil’s elbow, harsh movements no more.</p><p>“Okay,” Taeil breathes out, not facing Youngho.)</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The next day Taeil’s skin is heated from the sun and no matter how careful he tries to be around thorns his hands still hurt from picking gooseberries. He’s not sure if they are ripe enough but he needs to hurry for the festival. If he wins this year, he can send some extra money to his sister and his newborn niece. </p><p>He hears a bike bell and thinks it must be Donghyuck with a new story about catching toads with Jeno.</p><p>But it’s Donghyuck <em>and</em> Youngho, white t-shirt, huge smile, soft hair. He’s holding a handlebar of Taeil’s bike.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Hyung! We fixed it!” Donghyuck is ecstatic and Youngho is smiling the same. They bring it in, Donghyuck boasting about helping with everything, his hands soiled with grease. Youngho is looking at Taeil, his smile shy now, expectant. Taeil feels sick from the sun.</p><p>“It’s a gift. For helping me,” Youngho’s voice is soft over Donghyuck’s grunts as he picks up a small berry out of a basket between Taeil’s legs.</p><p>“Besides, I can’t drive you all the time, right?” Youngho tries to laugh, ease the situation.</p><p>Taeil looks at the chain that’s in the right place now, a new wheel instead of a crooked old one. It feels weird seeing it like that, it brings back bad memories.</p><p>“You should have asked,” Taeil mumbles so unbearably low, only Youngho seems to catch it.</p><p>Taeil squeezes out a ‘thanks’, voice almost non-existent and storms off inside of his house. He washes his hands under cold water until they are numb.</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Youngho’s hair sticks to his forehead as he walks along a narrow path between thick wet grass, its emerald needles swallowing him. It’s drizzling and the sky is heavy with clouds. His favorite sneakers are a mess and he’s got only himself to blame for it. Donghyuck was as confused by yesterday as Youngho was. He told him where he might find Taeil.</p><p>“I’ve never seen him this upset.” </p><p>Youngho sees Taeil surrounded by three wagging tails. The dogs seem interested in what he's holding in his hands, their mouths open and it almost looks like they are smiling.</p><p>“Are they strays?” Youngho asks and makes Taeil jump a bit. He looks at him, sighs and gives one of the dogs a small treat.</p><p>“Yes. I come to feed them sometimes, though they seem to be doing fine without me.”</p><p>Youngho is already beside Taeil, petting the bigger dog’s head. They all are mutts, but this one reminds Youngho of his dog. The dogs are curious about Youngho at first, sniffing his hands but quickly switch their attention back to someone with food.</p><p>“I really want to adopt them all,” Taeil says as he crouches and pets them one by one. “My dog died recently. She was about fifteen.”</p><p>Youngho knows exactly what Taeil leaves unsaid. He really wants to, but he can’t, his loss too fresh. If Youngho hadn’t had to put down his own dog himself just three months ago, he might not have noticed the strain in Taeil’s voice.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he almost whispers, not mentioning his own grief. He thinks he made enough things about himself already.</p><p>They are silent as Taeil puts a huge bowl of dog food on the ground and watch the dogs devour it.</p><p>Taeil looks at Youngho. There’s a raindrop between his eyelashes.</p><p>“I’m sorry too. I should have accepted your gift. It was dumb to take it out on you.”</p><p>His voice is still strained and eyes are searching for anything but Youngho’s face. He cups his ear, rubbing the earlobe, nervous.</p><p>They walk back together and Youngho allows himself to wrap a hand around Taeil’s shoulders and Taeil allows himself to cry that night.</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Youngho gets a text at 8 pm that he ignores and then he gets so many calls that he just can’t ignore them. It’s his other job, the one that doesn’t get him much of sincere amazement from new acquaintances. It’s not a 9-to-5, but it’s not basking in your own consciousness either, trying to retrieve something palpable, real, something that will bring him peace even if for a short while.</p><p>Even though he’d taken unpaid vacation, the head of the HR department on the other end of the line is adamant that he absolutely must be present at tomorrow’s meeting for a new project. How an English text editor being there is so important escapes Youngho, but it’s his job that allows him to buy a new pair of Nikes and rent a house. The only thing he can do is sigh and evaluate what of his current belongings he might need to take for a short trip back to the city.</p><p>He contemplates going to Taeil’s place, informing him about his short leave, but he can see through his window that the lights are out and Youngho’s mind goes back to their earlier dialogue. He’ll tell him in the morning.</p><p>He spends most of the evening and early night letting his hand outline new words in his old notebook, not thinking much about their weight, and reading through the new project agenda. It’s dull and he falls asleep to the beating of raindrops against the metal. In his dreams he’s at the meeting and Taeil is giving a presentation on how to feed stray dogs.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Youngho feels guilty for waking Taeil up so early. His eyes are tired and puffy, voice hoarse and there are sleep lines on his face. A single raindrop falls on his cheek, but he swats it away lazily.</p><p>“I have to leave for a day. Work,” Youngho is brief, afraid to say something irrelevant or annoying.</p><p>Taeil raises his eyes to look into Youngho’s, shivering and crossing his arms across his chest.</p><p>“Oh…Okay. I thought you were working here, though?” he utters, his voice timid.</p><p>“It’s…a different job. The one where I actually have a boss,” Youngho tries to smile.</p><p>“I see. Well, you can stay extra day then,” he scratches his head. “Or I can give you money back for this day.”</p><p>It takes Youngho a second to realize what Taeil is talking about. It’s like he’s forgotten that Taeil is still his landlord.</p><p>“It’s okay. Maybe I’ll be back by the late evening,” Youngho doesn’t know why he’s lying. “It’s just a small meeting.”</p><p>Taeil hums, his lips protruding and eyes lidded from the evident lack of sleep.</p><p>They are silent for a moment that lasts too long to be comfortable, broken only by the rhythm of raindrops against Taeil’s porch.</p><p>“Bye, Taeil.”</p><p>“See you.”</p><p>The sky is drab as Youngho drives away, waving back at Taeil from his seat and it’s drab when he arrives in Seoul. The smell of gasoline is blunt in Youngho’s nostrils. The meeting is in more than an hour and he treats himself to a cup of coffee that tastes very different from what he has been making all this time. The traffic is irritating and as Youngho switches lanes he feels his phone buzz in his jeans.</p><p>He gets to check the text only after he’d parked and is rushing to the elevator. It’s from Taeil, whose number Youngho forgot he’d saved on his phone.</p><p><strong>Taeil Landlord [14:58]:</strong> Good luck with your meeting!</p><p>In the metal secrecy of the elevator Youngho presses the phone to his chest, closes his eyes and sighs with a smile.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
It feels weird to text Taeil. He even forgot that he had his number, he didn’t really need it too when he could just go to Taeil’s place and talk there.</p><p>The meeting’s dragging and just as he expected, he’s not really needed here. It gives him the opportunity to text Taeil, getting used to the new way of communication between them and ease that comes with it.</p><p>Taeil apologizes to him again, Youngho apologizes to him too, again. Like that, it doesn’t take away from the sincerity, it’s easier to finally close this chapter.</p><p>Youngho spends the evening between catching up with his colleagues at a bar, looking at their warped faces through the emptying glasses of his drinks and texting Taeil.</p><p>When he comes home to his apartment it feels foreign and distant. Just a place to crash his limbs and wait for the whirling to stop. He makes a weak mental note to not forget that his car is parked in the parking lot of his workplace. An image of Taeil’s face disrupts it and the extra drink, the one that Youngho always regrets in the morning, opens up a dam in his mind that’s very difficult to shut down.</p><p>A text wishing Youngho a good night back illuminates Youngho’s face. He grunts, rolling over on his stomach and moving his hand hastily past the belt of his jeans. It takes a couple of minutes and a blurry image of Taeil from that time they went swimming behind tightly shut eyes. He falls asleep, drunk and sedated. He feels guilty in the morning, dry cum on his fingers.</p><p><br/>
--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>(Taeil’s skin is itching from the tag underneath his ironed shirt. He’s too tired to take it off, eyes glued to the TV, so he just unbuttons it, feeling a brief relief. The smell from the kitchen is rich and salty and Taeil’s stomach makes an ugly noise.</p><p>Minutes later he walks into the kitchen, seeing his mother standing next to a huge pot of steaming soup, dark coral liquid bubbling less and less.</p><p>There’s ingrained fatigue in her eyes as she hands him the bowl, the one Taeil is so used to see it almost doesn’t move him. Her hands red from spices and creased from time.</p><p>Taeil is graduating soon. Somehow he still gets in trouble, only now he knows how to hide it and how to make sure his mother doesn’t know. He eyes the bowl of soup and thinks about his own rage, the color mirroring it. No, not rage, but an expired frustration. It had nothing to do with other people but only with himself.</p><p>His mother is telling him about her day at work, some anecdote that she thinks might make him grin but it’s only amusing her, switches to the topic of his sister’s upcoming wedding and her eyes lose the fatigue, now glowing. At that moment Taeil understands that he has to leave some things unsaid so that they both can move forward, already denying himself a prospect of happiness. He is jealous of something he can never be.)</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
The first thing Youngho sees at Taeil’s house are countless jars of jam. The festival is in two days and Youngho can see and sense getting Taeil more nervous every day - his lower lip is more injured than usual and so is the skin on his hands.</p><p>He offers to drive Taeil to the festival. Taeil accepts it albeit still reluctant. He’s okay with side-stepping as long as they walk on, Youngho thinks to himself.</p><p>They spend the next day sealing the jars and Youngho learns more about the process of growing berries and making them into jam than he could ever have from the Internet, his main source of any information. Its pleasantly sour and light taste reminds Youngho about his first spring in South Korea.</p><p>“Is it good? Did I put enough sugar?” Taeil asks as he tastes it himself, quickly swiping his finger against the rich golden color and putting it in his mouth. Youngho’s eyes follow, trying not to think back to the night explorations of what Taeil’s body might feel like under his fingers.</p><p>“I think it’s good. Don’t put anymore, it might ruin it.”</p><p>Taeil nods a few times, lips around the tip of his finger, eyes where Youngho cannot catch them. The faucet drums a split rhythm behind their backs.</p><p>There’s cold pasta on the table that Taeil managed to scrape for both after sealing the jars and showing Youngho how to do it properly.</p><p>Something has shifted. Now Taeil trusts Youngho enough to show him his room - it’s tidy and well-lit. There are dozens and dozens of books on the shelves, some of them familiar to Youngho, some of them his favorites. The guitar in the corner is dusty, the sun highlighting the fingerprints smudges on its varnished surface. There are at least a dozen of plants in small pots scattered around the room.</p><p>“You know French?” he asks when he spots a collection of Rimbaud’s poems, in the original, latin alphabet catching his eye.</p><p>Taeil frowns, looks at the book and chuckles.</p><p>“No. It has translations inside.”</p><p>When Youngho flips through the pages he sees pencil marks all over, words underlined, words circled, question marks here and there, a maturing handwriting. His eyes stop on a poem about drunk late spring wanderings and falling in love at seventeen and suddenly, he feels sorry for not giving more chances – to the words and to people in his life.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They ride in the early morning and the picture on either side is divided into three: gilt, jade and translucent blue.</p><p>“Do you have any cigarettes?” comes Taeil’s unexpected questions.</p><p>Youngho glances at Taeil and says after a pause, “No, I don’t. You smoke?”</p><p>“Rarely,” Taeil utters as he bites on his thumb, looking at the fields of fresh flying past him.</p><p>They stop by a lonely convenience store and Taeil takes his time to smoke just one, his elbows on the fence. He hides the flame behind his palm and then looks straight ahead and Youngho looks at him, lips thinning around the cigarette, smoke barely visible against the clearing sky. There are words boiling in his head, an itch to write that for the past month he exclusively felt with Taeil. He types them in his phone, ignoring typos and feeling pacified, just like Taeil after the last drag.</p><p>By the time they arrive the festival has already started. There are loud kids running around, holding colorful ribbons and candies. The stalls they pass by are full of huge vegetables and fruit, Youngho has to fight the urge to touch them. Old ladies smile at him, offering him to taste all kinds of produce they have and Youngho almost stops to taste honey that sparkles under the ruthless sun. Taeil rushes him, saying that he can try it all later.</p><p>“You’re no fun.”</p><p>Taeil huffs, dragging Youngho by the elbow towards an empty stall.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
It’s well past the afternoon and the festival is in the full bloom. Youngho had no experience in sales, but he didn’t need any since almost everyone who came by their stall bought two or three jars without any follow-up questions, exchanging a few words with Taeil and even with Youngho.</p><p>It’s fascinating seeing him like that. Talkative, smiling. He smiles when he’s with Youngho and laughs too, but it always seems like a daydream. Taeil feels <em>real, </em>interacting with other people and existing outside of Youngho’s perception.</p><p>Donghyuck comes too, walking around the stall to hug Taeil. He is accompanied by another soft-smiled teenager. They tease Taeil about everything like he is their older sibling and Taeil lets them. Youngho can only smile watching these exchanges, storing them in his memory subconsciously.</p><p>There are few jars left on the table and Taeil seems much more relaxed than he did in the morning.</p><p>“I think it’s because of you we’ve managed to sell so many,” he says suddenly, without looking at Youngho.</p><p>“Me? Taeil, I’ve literally never sold a thing in my life.”</p><p>Taeil’s chuckle is soft as he plays with the ribbon on the jar, untying and tying it back again. He looks at Youngho now, grinning and there are creases around his eyes from.</p><p>“I guess they see a new face and get excited about it. Everyone knows each other here,” he looks in another direction as he talks, eyes tired from the sun.</p><p>A smile slowly fades from Taeil’s face as he stands up from his seat and starts fiddling with a basket, moving the jars in mindlessly.</p><p>“I found your story on the Internet,” he says gently, barely audible.</p><p>“Which one?” Youngho feels like he doesn’t have to ask this question.</p><p>“Actually, I just put your name in the search and read the first one that popped.”</p><p>Youngho tries to keep his emotions out of his face, but it’s hard to hide a nervous, tight-lipped smile. He knows which one it is. Taeil doesn’t look his way, moving the jars around as he’s trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle.</p><p>“I liked it. A lot. It’s very raw and beautiful. I enjoy that sort of prose.”</p><p>Youngho exhales. He didn’t expect their conversation to take this turn. He manages to whisper a tight ‘thank you’.</p><p>“Can I ask you something? It might be too personal.”</p><p>Taeil finally looks at him, eyes wide open and curious. Youngho feels no hostility in Taeil’s tone and it makes it easier to answer.</p><p>“Sure, ask away.”</p><p>“Is it based on something that…happened to you?” Taeil is hesitant for a second, fingers tight around the handle of the basket.</p><p>Youngho expected that question, had answered it many times before. It still feels like he’s baring his soul when he has to answer it.</p><p>He nods, looking Taeil in the eyes, feeling extremely vulnerable. Taeil nods too.</p><p>He holds out the basket to give it to Youngho.</p><p>“Let’s carry them back to the car. The festival is ending soon. We might get to watch some buskers if we hurry.” Taeil’s tone is different now, cheerful, but gentle.</p><p>They walk back in silence, shoulders brushing.</p><p>Youngho thinks about taunting hours he spent writing back home almost a year ago. His eyes would hurt from the black and white of the screen and a picture of his newly ex-boyfriend pinned to the wall.</p><p>That short story printed in a biannual literary magazine brought him steady success, a nice paycheck and a gushing wound that would be hard to heal. It felt like bloodletting.</p><p>After that Youngho felt spent, unable to recharge. Like any writer, he hated the process of writing. It made him feel exposed, dumb and alone with himself for too long. Like poking a sore with your finger, putting pressure to feel a temporary relief, only to feel even more discomfort later. His story stinks of inertial love and he feels like he can’t get rid of the stench, even here. Sometimes it feels like he invented that love, along with every line of the story.</p><p>Since then, Youngho couldn’t write anything that he would be proud of. Until Taeil.</p><p>First, Youngho thought that the change of scenery would inspire him, heal him and give his mind the new strength he needed so much.</p><p>Then, Taeil veered it all the other way with a very simple idea that he should just go with the flow, even if it feels like he’s going against it. Trust the process, trust the words, they never lie.</p><p>But then, Taeil tempered even more with Youngho’s fragile efficiency.</p><p>There’s an idea that’s been sitting in his brain for a long time, but every time he tries to put it into words, build a world, draw a continuum, he hates how it turns out.</p><p>He starts with the main character – a man in his late 50s, who loses his wife to cancer. He tries to go smart about it, depicting his struggles after her death, things that he didn’t even know he might miss about her, minute details that remind him of her. He’d accepted her death even before she’d died, but it isn’t enough and the character learns it through the story, comes to accept it.</p><p>Somewhere between handwritten scene sketches and unsorted files on his laptop, Youngho realizes that the new character he’d tried to introduce was oddly similar to Taeil. At first, he’s the main character’s son, then a young student he meets at the group therapy, who reminds him too much of his wife. Youngho shivers as he realizes how similar they are and crumples sheets of paper with the scene of their first meeting.</p><p>It’s not the first time Youngho stole someone’s likeness or personality to put into his work and he realizes that he does it subconsciously. This is what his editor and most people would call inspiration. With Taeil, however, it feels too gratuitous.</p><p>(Youngho is twenty-three and he comes to visit his parents over spring break. His mother is all smiles when she hears about his first published text. It’s just a very long, boring essay on Henry Miller’s works but both his parents are extremely proud of him and even read some of the extracts together, leaning over the printed version of the journal Youngho brought with him. He’s thinking about his entrance exams for MFA in literature and his heart isn’t broken yet, which means the success his parents are so sure he’ll achieve isn’t to come for two more years.</p><p>As his mother is bragging about him on the phone to an aunt Youngho has never seen, he tells his father in confidence that the drafts he sends to various publishing companies are denied one after the other and he is losing all hope.</p><p>His body tenses when his father tells him that no matter what happens, they’ll always be here for him and will always love their son.</p><p>He hasn’t come out to them yet. How easy it can be to test someone’s words and catch them on their bullshit.)<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--</p><p><br/>
Taeil looks smaller as he sits in the passenger seat, his mouth curved, sulky and eyes glistening. The loss must be on his mind, still.</p><p>Youngho thinks of what he should say and maybe this time he shouldn’t say anything at all. Taeil’s fingers are picking at the knee hole on his jeans, pulling out tiny threads.</p><p>“Everybody liked you back there,” he says, sincere.</p><p>“They were really nice. Donghyuck was really curious about the states. His English is pretty good too.”</p><p>“He’s a nice kid, keeps me sane.”</p><p>There’s a promise of a smile on Taeil’s lips as he stops ruining his jeans and lifts his head, looking straight ahead.</p><p>The landscape has changed and now everything is almost purple without the sun. Youngho watches the tips of tall grass move with the wind.</p><p>“I like you too,” Taeil says, without taking his eyes off the motionless road in front of him.</p><p>Youngho’s silence isn’t really his choice, but a reaction. And just like that Youngho’s years of writing and university degrees and experience in working with language and contexts leave him. He’s stripped naked, not knowing what to say, afraid to assume, but also wanting to be right.</p><p>Taeil finally looks at him, frustrated at the silence and there’s a tentative fear in the slant of his eyebrows. Oddly enough, Youngho knows exactly what it feels like to be wrong like this. Overwhelmed, scared, scarred. It’s endless, this chase after simple happiness.</p><p>Words never come to Youngho so he leans closer and hopes that Taeil would do the same. He does.</p><p>Taeil’s lips are tender. It feels new to kiss him. It feels right, like the first and the last time. Taeil is the quiet breaths on Youngho as their hands find each other’s faces and the kiss becomes heated. Youngho wants to believe that he’s not the only one who’s desperate to feel as much as possible, afraid to fade in the moment.</p><p>Taeil tilts his head forward just enough to break the kiss but to still breathe the same air. His eyes are closed, lids trembling.</p><p>“Come back,” Youngho finally whispers, a misplaced answer to Taeil’s confession.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Taeil swirls Youngho’s earring between his fingers, his face close, too close. Youngho has to hold his breath, just in case he will evaporate from its force.</p><p>He presses Taeil harder against the wall of his room, fingers tight around the veins on his arm. A gesture of desperateness, not control.</p><p>There’s moonlight in Taeil’s tired eyes and Youngho runs his hand through Taeil’s hair, dark locks splitting between his fingers like sea waves breaking against a ship. It feels peaceful just to touch like that, feel the warmth. Be allowed to feel it.</p><p>Taeil kisses him first this time, gentle hand on his neck and Youngho can’t believe he ever thought of Taeil as aloof and unreachable. Seeing him like that was just a self-defense mechanism that Youngho still went against. He learned the hard way that a broken heart was too much of a price for a good story.</p><p>He feels Taeil’s fingers stroke the small hairs at his nape, his breath hot against Youngho’s wet lips.</p><p>“Do you really like me?”</p><p>The words fall out of his mouth, a pathetic, teenager-esque question and Youngho feels small under Taeil’s lips on his neck, even if he’s towering above him, caging him with one arm.</p><p>Taeil looks up, innocently. His cheeks are flushed. There’s extra skin above his left eye, a mole just above the jawbone, a scar the story of which he still doesn’t know and Youngho pretends it’s the first time he’s noticed it.</p><p>“I like you. Do you like me?”</p><p>“Yes,” Youngho whispers. It’s easy to come up with just one word.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
(The way Taeil interprets Youngho’s words and actions is his own obstacle only, he realizes as he lies sleepless in his bed, clutching a pillow.</p><p>“Is there a reason you don’t want my help?” he’s been asked a variation of this question too many times already, concerning anything. Youngho is persistent, Taeil doesn’t understand why.</p><p>“What makes you think that I need it?”</p><p>Youngho is silent for a moment, his gaze heavy on Taeil.</p><p>“You realize there’s nothing wrong in needing help?”</p><p>And maybe it’s the old wounds talking in Taeil, showing his ugly side. He’s been on his own for too long now. It’s embarrassing.</p><p>He reads Youngho’s story, brash light from his phone attacking his eyes. There’s a tickling inside his throat, a risk of him crying again, something he almost never does. It’s written from the first point of view. Straight-forward, unrefined, many things are left unsaid, things that are easy to fill in while reading. Taeil sees Youngho in every line of the text and drowns in empathy as his own old scars start to itch once again. It’s surprising how few words are needed to understand someone’s pain so distinctly.</p><p>In the end, the character promises himself to let go and so does Taeil, a promise that was long overdue.</p><p>That’s why Youngho is so open and uncomplicated, like a book with pictures, Taeil thinks. There are layers and structures of him that were being built around for years, brewed and sculpted, but they are all accessible too, easy to navigate.</p><p>Taeil is missing a few staircases, a few bricks and the keys to the locks don’t always fit. Some are lost.</p><p>Taeil used to love carelessly and frankly, chasing the dreams and waning himself away too much for someone who’d never do the same. He isn’t even sure if they’ll recognize him in the crowd.</p><p>It’s exhausting to try and fit together when you’re built from different things. Youngho must know this too, if the story that left Taeil teary-eyed is anything to go by.</p><p>Maybe that’s why Taeil kisses him back, damning all the fears, trusting himself, Youngho and the words.)</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
There’s a bruise on Taeil’s bicep that Youngho notices, drags his finger along. Taeil looks up, pressing snuggly into Youngho’s chest.</p><p>“How did you get that?”</p><p>Taeil feels Youngho press against it and answers without looking away from Youngho’s still wet lips.</p><p>“I sleepwalk sometimes. Bump into things.”</p><p>Youngho hums, now circling the mole on Taeil’s elbow.</p><p>“Are you sad you didn’t win?”</p><p>Taeil’s eyes are closed now, breathing even and quiet.</p><p>“I guess,” his voice is slightly muffled against Youngho’s neck. “But you can’t always win. You don’t have to.”</p><p>Youngho can’t help but grin at the same Taeil he got to know weeks ago, with his plain existential revelations and undeniable facts. It sobers Youngho, like cold water. You don’t have to. He hates how easily Taeil accepts it and he himself can’t.</p><p>The next morning Youngho wakes up to see Taeil’s bare feet pressing against the wooden floor, as if they are feeling inconsistencies in it. The hairs on his legs stick out transparent in the sunlight. He looks up to see him scratching his sleep drained eyes. He’s leaning against the doorframe, body bare safe for the sunlight and a pair of skew boxers.</p><p>“You take up so much space,” he mutters lowly, padding towards the bed and lying himself on it with a thud. His knee nudges Youngho’s.</p><p>“I thought you liked that,” Youngho muses, voice croaked. He props his head with his palm and runs a line with just his fingertip against Taeil’s rib.</p><p>It’s novel to be inside Taeil’s house in the morning or at night, instead of stargazing and sharing dumb childhood memories, just to realize they shared too many things for kids who grew up an ocean apart.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Taeil thumbs the thick curtains he’d bought today. They are ivory. Are they? Taeil has never been good with shades and colors.</p><p>His trip to IKEA was boring, safe for a moment of joy when he found an empty parking spot. He’d touched too many toothbrush holders, salt shakers, ladles, plastic containers and ice-cube trays today to count the day as useful.</p><p>His body is still humming from the hot shower.</p><p>Youngho’s texted him that he’s on his way. It shouldn’t take him much time since he isn’t the one who’s in the grip of traffic today. The text makes Taeil think about their recent dialogue, his new responsibility that he’s hesitant to accept yet.</p><p>“You know I value your opinion,” he’d speak into Taeil’s ear, soft, like it’s a secret even the walls of their apartment shouldn’t know. <em>Their</em>.</p><p>A stack of pages as thick as Taeil’s middle finger lies on his side of the bed. It’s something Youngho has been working on for the past eight months. Taeil would go to sleep and wake up to the static image of Youngho sitting crouched on the couch or at his desk. Pen in his hand, sometimes, when they had breakfast. Face strung with concentration. An old notebook with soft edges in his lap. His lips moving soundlessly and brows knit, before he would take his phone out and type something in his notes.</p><p>It’s intimate, seeing him like that. It’s also pressuring.</p><p>Youngho understood the potential toll of his work that could thwart their relationship. That’s why Youngho would intertwine their fingers across the tables of all the places they go to on dates. Taeil never was the first to extend his palm, unused to this. Too public. Too intimidating. But for Youngho, he’d always find courage to squeeze his fingers in a wordless reply. For Youngho.</p><p>Their last outing was not really a date, even if Taeil kept tracing Youngho’s jawbone, nose, chin with his eyes only. When their eyes would meet, Youngho would grin and Taeil would try to fight the tug of his own mouth and look away.</p><p>Dongyoung is easy to talk to and nice to listen to. Nothing like Youngho paints him to be, a soulless editor he is not. He tells Taeil about his and Youngho’s first meeting, how Youngho fought for every word Dongyoung marred with red, smoldering with raw verve. Youngho hides an embarrassed smile behind his palm. Taeil adds the story to the list of things he loves about Youngho.</p><p>It makes him think about their first meeting. About their first trip to Seoul, together.</p><p>(The lights they pass hit Youngho’s face rapidly as if he is looking at the sun through a fan. His hand relaxed around the wheel, the other only coming up sometimes only to make Taeil feel safer, the latter thought to himself. Youngho must feel his occasional gaze on him, but it hardly comes from the lack of trust on Taeil’s part. It’s hard to not feel safe with Youngho.</p><p>Youngho’d promised to take him to his favorite club and Taeil instantly became weary of this idea, although he tried to hide it well. Taeil hasn’t been in Seoul for some time now, hasn’t been to the clubs even longer. But it’s so hard to deny Youngho.</p><p>The city welcomes him the same. Like with anything, it’s difficult to spot crucial changes when you’re looking from a distance. The air is thick as the summer waddles to its end.</p><p>Taeil, keeping the promise to himself, lets go. Youngho grips his wrist, head tilted to the side. There are lights behind him, pulsing through, people dancing. Taeil has to tiptoe to make sure Youngho hears him.</p><p>“You should have told me it’s a gay club. I would have dressed better.”</p><p>The truth is, Youngho gave him enough hints. Taeil played it cool, but it did make him nervous.</p><p>“Why? Are you planning on hooking up with someone?” Youngho’s tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, mockingly.</p><p>“You,” Taeil says through a complacent and confident smile, fueled by the alcohol.</p><p>They fuck that night and it’s their first time at Youngho’s apartment. Humid air between their mouths, they kiss urgently, Taeil’s lips finding Youngho’s cheekbone scraping against the dark.</p><p>Youngho catches his wrists again, holding them tightly as Taeil presses closer, the bed a leverage against his back making it easier to buck against Youngho’s crotch. One arm wrapped around Youngho’s neck, a chaste kiss pressed to Taeil’s jaw.</p><p>Back at Taeil’s house, they’ve already relived the best moments of first time sex. Taeil would move against Youngho desperately, waiting for the mutual friction, whimpering as Youngho would wrap his long fingers around their cocks. Youngho would breathe a wordless promise above his lips. Even with them both knowing how hard it is to kiss when you chase an orgasm, they still try. Later, their skin would become fused with cum and spit stained bed sheets. It was hot, unbearable and filthy.</p><p>Back in Seoul, it feels like the first time again and in some ways it is. The sheets are fresh now as they touch his skin, the window is open and he hears engines of cars passing by instead of birds or crickets, he doesn’t know this room. The only constant is Youngho. Youngho, who’s got two fingers inside of him and is groaning when Taeil’s knee is pressing gently against his hardening cock.</p><p>“I wanna ride you,” Taeil voices, the sound harsh from kissing. Youngho breathes out, trying to hide his whimper. He wants this just as much.</p><p>It takes some awkward repositioning and bumping shoulders and knees, but eventually Taeil is in Youngho’s lap and has adjusted to the stretch and length. Youngho’s caress smoothes over his waist and they start moving. Between the strain of Youngho’s thighs and Taeil’s throat going dry from moaning, Taeil lures his hand inside of Youngho’s and clutches it tightly.)<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Taeil has to shake his head and put a pillow on his lap when he hears Youngho closing the door behind him. He waits for him to reach the bedroom and sees that there’s a bottle of champagne in his hands.</p><p>“Dongyoung?”</p><p>“Yes. He’s only half way through, but already gave me this to celebrate,” Youngho’s smile is genuine and proud.</p><p>“I told you shouldn’t worry. Congratulations!”</p><p>Youngho comes closer to put the bottle on the bedside table and Taeil reaches to hold the fingertips of his hand, massaging them lightly. Taeil knows that Youngho knows that he hasn’t touched the manuscript.</p><p>“How was your day?” Youngho’s hand wraps around Taeil’s.</p><p>“I bought the curtains. But I don’t know if they are the right color,” Taeil says as he holds out the thick fabric. Youngho smiles, still holding Taeil’s hand.</p><p>“They are okay.”</p><p>“You didn’t even look at them, Johnny,” Taeil drawls his American name nasally, something he does when he wants to soften the atmosphere.</p><p>“I want to look at you,” Youngho says without hesitation, his other hand folding around Taeil’s bicep. He's now sitting on the edge of the bed, facing Taeil.</p><p>“Then look.”</p><p>Youngho’s eyes are dark brown of a tree bark that pops into the absent sunlight, feeding into the soil and it’s a feigned control on Taeil’s part.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>--</p><p><br/>
Taeil still feels the ghosts of Youngho’s thrusts against his thighs when he is falling asleep, his boyfriend’s hand firm on his chest.</p><p>He wakes up hours later and sees Youngho lit by the night moon, looking right at him, eyes tender from going back and forth between sleep. It’s rare that he’s in bed at this hour.</p><p>“What?” Taeil croaks, scooting closer to Youngho, following the warmth.</p><p>“What?” Youngho mirrors and Taeil doesn’t have to look to know that he’s smiling.</p><p>“Why are you looking at me in the middle of the night?”</p><p>“Making sure you don’t bump into anything if your brain decides it’s time to sleepwalk,” Youngho’s voice is quiet as he says this, almost apologetic.</p><p>Taeil tries to chuckle but he’s already falling back to sleep.</p><p><br/>
--</p><p><br/>
Youngho touches the doorframe, pushing the skin of his finger against it, hoping to translate new memories through it, and relive old ones. He only manages to leave a slight grease mark on it.</p><p>It’s the same sun that spills over Taeil’s skin, as he rummages through a cardboard box, the one that did more than two years ago. The same one that warmed them and burned them. Taeil’s hair is longer than his own house remembers.</p><p>Youngho remembers, too. How he was terrified about writing and didn’t know it yet, how Taeil’s fear was that accepting help would only confirm that he was ruined. The fear of not winning, not prevailing bound them together, seeping through every bone, manifesting in the stupidest ways. Taeil pretending he’d overcome it only to fall back into it. Youngho ignoring it altogether.</p><p>The sun is the same, they are not. Now they have a joint bank account and <em>I love yous</em> exchanged through languages and touches, and in this world, Youngho thinks, it must mean something.<br/>
<br/>
The shelves of Taeil's room now hold a new book,<em> to my T.</em> engraved on its first page forever. After all, manuscripts don't burn. </p><p>The grass rustles against Taeil’s legs as they walk through it and to Youngho it’s the same grass as before. It’s the same stars in the same lonely sky, the same moon casting its beam along Taeil’s pretty face. His hands are healed, no longer red and scratched from the thorny bushes outside his house. It’s the same hands Taeil hugged Youngho’s with.</p><p>They are not the same. Taeil in his arms. It pulls them closer together.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading.<br/>a huge thank you to my very (!) patient beta - <a href="https://twitter.com/ohsunwrites">ohsun</a><br/>and of course, to my gf for listening to me agonizing about this fic for more than a month and for teaching me how to make gooseberry jam</p><p> <br/><a href="https://twitter.com/ylixiss">my twt</a></p><p>references: rimbaud's poem youngho reads is called ‘romance’<br/>"manuscripts don't burn" - quote from ‘the master and margarita’ by m. bulgakov</p></blockquote></div></div>
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